Old News

I am suspicious of the regularity of rain
Of the angularity of stacked tuna cans and a shopping list and a proffered hand and a cheerful curl of Ginger.
I am suspicious of catalogues and numbers neat
And the way you eat from left to right, always.

I’ve a heart of mess and a gaping chest and a wound that festers much as I dress it in gold
And my formulas break and my black dogs chase and I scold at my soul when the morning breaks on Sundays, every Sunday.